Chapter 46: The Vulture’s Peace

Chapter 46: The Vulture's Peace

300 AC, Month of the Last Harvest

The death of Tywin Lannister was not a death knell for his House; it was a slow, agonizing slide into incompetence. The great Lion of the Rock was gone, and in his place, a frantic, paranoid lioness now reigned as Queen Regent. From the serene, orderly battlements of Serpent's Head Keep, Alaric Blackwood watched the predictable decay of his greatest rival with the detached satisfaction of a businessman watching a competitor's stock plummet after the ousting of a competent CEO.

The power vacuum in King's Landing was a chaotic vortex that threatened to suck the entire realm into its spin. Alaric, with his perfect foreknowledge and now preternaturally enhanced senses, had no intention of being drawn into the storm. Instead, he would profit from the winds it generated.

His public posture was one of impeccable, concerned loyalty. He sent a raven to the grieving Queen Regent, a letter of condolence so masterfully written it could have been penned by a Citadel poet. He mourned the loss of the great Lord Tywin, a "pillar of strength and stability for the realm." He offered his "unwavering support" to the new boy-king, Tommen. And, most importantly, he gently reminded the crown of its immense, newly restructured debt to his house, framing it as a "shared commitment to the fiscal health of the Seven Kingdoms." He was the concerned creditor, a far more menacing figure than an open enemy.

While his words soothed, his actions were a series of cold, calculated moves designed to capitalize on the chaos. His first target was the Tyrells. He knew Cersei's paranoia would soon drive a wedge between the lions and the roses. He would simply provide the tools to widen the crack.

An envoy from Highgarden arrived within the month. It was not the gallant Ser Garlan this time, but a shrewd, older cousin of Lord Mace, a man whose business was trade, not tourneys. The Queen of Thorns had sent one of her own. They met in Alaric's library, a chamber that spoke of quiet, intellectual power.

The Tyrell envoy spoke of the "unfortunate instability" at court and the "challenges" of dealing with the new Regent. He proposed an even deeper commercial alliance with House Blackwood, a partnership to control the flow of goods from the Reach, bypassing the crown's tariffs at King's Landing entirely.

Alaric agreed, of course. "In times of uncertainty, stable partnerships are the bedrock of prosperity," he said, his voice a smooth balm of reason. He was helping the Tyrells create an economic power base independent of the Lannisters, a move that would inevitably lead to conflict, all while taking a substantial percentage of their profits for his service.

Simultaneously, he began a new project, one born from his observation of the capital's decay. He knew Cersei, in her madness, would re-arm the Faith Militant. This, he foresaw, would create a new, fanatical power in the city, one that would eventually consume her. He would not stop it. He would use it.

He began a public campaign of piety. He endowed new septs throughout the Blackwater March and his territories in the Riverlands. He made massive, well-publicized donations to the fund for war orphans and widows. His wife, the beautiful and devout Lady Lynesse, presided over these charitable ceremonies, the very picture of a great lady's piety. House Blackwood of Serpent's Head became known throughout the south as a bastion of faith and traditional values. It was a perfect political shield. When the Sparrows began their rise, their fanatical gaze would slide right past the devout, generous Lord Alaric, focusing instead on the decadent, impious nobles of the court. He was inoculating his domain against the coming plague of religious fanaticism.

While his domain became a fortress of stability and his business empire fed on the growing chaos, his family life, the core of his dynastic ambition, continued under his meticulous cultivation. He now had three children. Tyber, his heir, was ten, a boy with his father's mind and his mother's Hightower blue eyes, now tinged with a hint of violet. His second son, Corvus, was an infant, healthy and strong. And then there was Cassia.

His daughter, now eight, was a growing enigma. Her connection to the draconic essence in her blood was manifesting in ways that were both subtle and deeply unnerving. It was more than just a calming influence on animals. One afternoon, Alaric observed her in the gardens. A visiting lord, a boorish, arrogant knight from the Stormlands named Ser Eldon, was berating a stableboy. Cassia, who was nearby, simply looked at the knight. She did not speak. She just… looked at him.

Ser Eldon stopped mid-sentence. A confused, placid expression came over his face. He blinked, seemed to forget what he was angry about, and then apologized to the stableboy before wandering off. Cassia simply went back to tending her flowers. Alaric felt a thrill of pure, scientific excitement. It was not the overt command of a dragonlord. It was a subtle, insidious form of mental influence, a form of magic he had only read about in the most obscure texts. His daughter was developing into a unique and powerful asset. He made a note to accelerate her education, not in sums and histories, but in the subtle arts of courtly intrigue and human psychology.

But as always, the culmination of all his efforts lay in his sanctum. The death of Tywin Lannister provided the final, necessary catalyst for his most ambitious magical project yet: the forging of a true arcane artifact. The political chaos and the distraction of Tyrion's trial gave him the perfect cover to proceed with his Dragonstone operation.

The reports from his team on the volcanic island were promising. The geothermal forge, hidden deep within a lava tube, was complete. It was a marvel of engineering, lined with obsidian and runes of heat-warding, capable of achieving temperatures that could begin to replicate the heart of a dragon's fire.

The ritual itself was a feat of long-distance sorcery that strained even Alaric's enhanced capabilities. He could not be on Dragonstone himself. He had to direct the forging from his vault at Serpent's Head. It required a ritual of immense power and a sacrifice to fuel it.

For the sacrifice, he used one of the Ironborn reavers his legion had "disposed of" during the war, a man who had been kept in a magically induced slumber in the dungeons beneath his keep. The man's life force was the fuel.

In his sanctum, Alaric began the chant, the Valyrian words making the air crackle. He placed the Valyrian steel dagger on the altar, along with a crucible containing the precious dust filed from Red Rain. He added a drop of his own blood. As he completed the incantation, he plunged his consciousness into the scrying bowl, his will surging across the sea to the hidden forge on Dragonstone.

He saw through the eyes of his Myrish engineer, Petyr. He directed his men as they placed a small, perfectly shaped ingot of obsidian infused with the steel dust into the heart of the geothermal forge. He felt the life force of the sacrifice being consumed, a torrent of raw energy that flowed through him and into the forge. The heat was immense, a blinding white light.

For hours, he directed the process, his mind holding the complex Valyrian forging spells, guiding the hammers of his men, shaping the glowing metal. It was the most exhausting and exhilarating thing he had ever done.

When it was over, he was left panting and drained, but triumphant. He sent a coded message for the object to be brought back with the utmost secrecy. It arrived a week later, nestled in a box of black velvet.

It was a simple, unadorned ring of a dark, rippling metal. It was not true Valyrian steel, but it was something close, something new. A proto-Valyrian alloy, born of earth-fire and blood-magic. He slipped it onto his finger.

The effect was instantaneous. It was as if a veil had been lifted from his senses. The ring was a powerful magical amplifier, a permanent focus for his own abilities. He could now feel the currents of magic in the world around him as easily as a man feels the wind on his skin. He no longer needed the cumbersome scrying bowl for simple observation. He could close his eyes, focus his will through the ring, and his consciousness would simply… go where he directed it. He had forged a key to a new level of power.

The timing was perfect. His newfound sensory abilities were just in time for the final act of the Lannister tragedy. He watched the farcical trial of Tyrion Lannister. He observed the political theater with contempt. And then, he focused his senses on the Red Keep on the night of Tyrion's escape.

He followed the Imp through the secret passages. He was a silent ghost in the chamber of the Hand as Tyrion confronted his father. He felt the surge of hatred, the twang of the crossbow string, the surprised grunt from Tywin Lannister. And then he felt it—the sudden, violent snuffing out of a great and powerful life force. It was like a lighthouse winking out in a storm. The Lion was dead.

A new raven arrived the next day. A formal, black-bordered announcement from the Small Council. The Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, was dead, murdered by his own fugitive son.

Alaric stood on the highest balcony of his keep, the new, dark ring cool on his finger. He could feel the chaos erupting in King's Landing, a frantic, headless scrambling for power. He could sense the fear of Cersei, the ambition of the Tyrells, the quiet, spreading influence of the High Sparrow.

Another raven arrived. This one was from his brother Martyn in Dorne.

Brother, the coded message read. The Red Viper's death has unleashed a storm. His daughters, the Sand Snakes, have been arrested by Prince Doran, but Sunspear boils with cries for war. There are whispers, too. Whispers carried on ships from the east. Of a Targaryen queen. A girl with three dragons. They say she has conquered cities in Slaver's Bay.

Alaric looked down at the ring on his hand. He looked at the two messages. The old world was dying. The lions and the wolves had crippled each other. The stags were scattered and broken. And now, the dragons were returning to the board.

Everything was proceeding. His wealth was beyond measure. His lands were a fortress of stability. His children were safe, their bloodline enhanced for the new age to come. And he himself now possessed a power that none of his rivals could even comprehend. He was no longer just a player in the game of thrones. He was becoming something else entirely, a power that stood outside the petty squabbles of mortals. The chaos was not a threat. It was the fertile ground from which his new world order would grow.